But Darling, This Isn't Wonderland
by CapturetheFinnick
Summary: In a dystopian future where the government have taken over, Dan and Phil are underground hackers, but what happens when Dan is seized by the government? Phan. Angst with some fluff. This will be chaptered.
1. Chapter 1

The basement. Cold and dank. Dark and dingy. Cobwebs clinging to corners like bats waiting to pounce, mice scuttling beneath the rusted floorboards; the persistent pattering of tiny feet the undeviating background noise. All you had to was prick up your ears, and you'd hear it. Gnawing, scampering, squeaking through their rotted mouths. A constant smell loitered, drifting through walls and refusing to submit to nozzles of detergent, a smell that the nose never quite adjusted to no matter the time you spent with it wafting through your nostrils. Nails stuck up from the ground like death traps, just lingering, waiting for the opportune moment, anticipating the second that the cold metal would reach tender flesh, longing to hear the cry of pain. In fact, there were only two rules in the basement. Don't go barefoot and, if you think something's biting you, you're probably right.

And so, no, the basement wasn't a tradition home. It was far from it. Inhospitable. The worst place on earth. But it wasn't the cold, not the cobwebs, not the lingering smell of mould that made it a home but rather the people. They say you can create a home out of anything. And Phil knew that better than anyone, for the beating hearts that sat around the room, some typing frantically at keyboards, and some lounging on questionable couches; they were far closer to home than any room could ever be.

On the surface it all seemed so bland. The smogged windows and dingy floors enclosing seven pale nerds with questionable haircuts, the aggressive clicking a constant background to chatter and laughter, when morale was high, and when food was abundant. But in reality it was so much more. It's always easy to see people staring at screens, sat at computer desks, lost in the '_new digital age', _and shake your head, see nothing more, but it's much harder to see the full picture, to imagine the world they are absorbed within. It is hard to look at them and not just see a '_pale nerd' _staring ferociously at a screen, and to imagine that each click is represented on a screen, each tap is a string of data weaving faster than a river, faster a lone car on a highway, that each click is a weave of data that is shooting so fast, running away like a streamer popped from a steaming party popper, click and off, click and off, bright lights travelling through wires and through air and through streams and through databases and hitting other data that is so very far away. Hacking. Phil still couldn't get his head around it. And Phil was a master.

There were many names for what they did; hackers, rebels, protesters, free-lance agents, spies, revolutionaries, programmer, geek, underground agent. The last one was Phil's favourite, and it was his favourite because just like the tinsel they had tried to hastily shove over the peeling walls, it attempted to embellish the truth. And it gave what they did just a little more importance, a little more reason. At least in his own head. He had needed that recently

When people hear the name 'underground agent' they imagine something much fancier than what it actually was, they imagine fast cars in blurs down streets and tight collars hanging black ties, they imagine burnished guns held against heads and book shelves that turn at the flutter of a page. They often don't imagine that they spent most of their time actually underground. But then reality always has a smidge of grime. Or a whole bucket load. And the reality was Phil's life.

The boys lay strung across the only sofa, arms tangled within legs and heads as they all fought for space, foam spilling out of tears in the sofa like rivers out of caves. There was laughter, but eventually it turned silent, as it so often did in those days, out of sheer fatigue, out of sheer sadness, and out of the one thing that constantly lingered above them. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. A held breath. And then blackness.

"Are we seriously out of batteries again?" Phil sighed, "I think I'm turning into a mole rat." The boys laughed but it was a nervous laugh. And Phil could tell. He could tell from the twitching of Rowan's fingers as he pushed his glasses up, or the way Cedar's voice hitched, or through Ash's constant gulping. The air had been thick ever since the incident. Ever since the great unnamed.

The group had formed in the early days, before anything took hold, before the chokehold tightened and people began to realise that they couldn't breathe. That's the thing about a fascism, about dictatorship, it's not fast and scary. It's not falling off a cliff and flailing, it's slow like a snake in the grass. It doesn't come with a promise of death, but rather one of hope, of twisted hope but hope all the same. And it still promises hope. But hope no longer means the same thing. And people have forgotten what hope used to mean. Or rather they are scared to remember.

University. In plush sofas and beanbags, surrounded by rich bookcases and the every flickering lights of a television, the light of the moon their only friend and their panic growing stronger with every nod of a head, with every passing student who seemed to become seized by the regime, by the fear of saying no. And one by one, night by night, things would disappear. And then reappear. No difference to the average human, the ones who were too scared to look, too scared to question. _'Maintenance' _they said, _'cleaning', 'sorry that book's out at the moment'. _But more and more books were 'out on loan' and yet there were no less books, more and more teachers had 'grievances with families' or simply 'grew tired of teaching' and yet there was an abundance of teachers. They were being _replaced, _altered just slightly. A ripple across the surface of a lake, like a fish bobbing up for air, but you had to dive deeper to see the real monster of the depths. Mass censoring without anyone knowing, strange 'disappearances' in the night, shifting eyes and an understanding that certain questions were not to be asked. An understanding that came out of nowhere, that was not announced, not spread from ear to ear but rather just crept in the night, washing over the students, bathing them, cleansing them of the old and teaching them of the new. There was no such thing as choice, and yet choice was still offered, they were living in a world of allusions. A dark cloud hanging above, infiltrating their minds one by one. And then students started disappearing and they were being weeded, a giant hand reaching down from above and picking, it's fat fingers hovering, plucking, discarding, the pile of waste slowly growing. Only the weak reminded, only the pliable, only the compliant. But the roots were always good at hiding.

That's what they called themselves 'the roots', the hackers that slunk through the ground to attack from below, their aim to wrap themselves around the beating heart and rupture it, strip away the blood and expose it for the blackness that lay below. The roots. Rowan. Ash. Elm. Cedar. Forrest. Yew. Hawthorn and Juniper. Their real names lost to the wind, or stolen by the moonlight. They were the trees that would provide the great roots to dissettle the regime. Well, that was the plan. There was little success.

No one knew each other's real names, or they pretended to forget, knowledge was just too dangerous. Apart from Phil, Phil knew Dan's and Dan knew Phil's. But Phil was trying not to think about Dan.

He heaved himself off of the sofa, "Well we must have _something." _Yew shook his head,

"I already checked."

"Twice." Hick blurted. But Phil rose anyway, walking skittishly up and down the hallway of their makeshift kitchen.

"Huck!" Phil heard Yew shout, "You have to sit down man." _Huck. _Phil still felt distanced from the name, as if there were two of him, the one who lived in the dark, the one who knew how to stand firm but still had the twinkle of rebellion in his eye and the other one, the shy boy that lived inside of him, the one that silently cried at night and kissed Dan softly when no one was looking. Dan. No. Not now.

Phil sighed, "I can't just sit here!"

"The generator will be back on _tomorrow," _Forrest stressed but Phil knew he was skittish too, they all were. In fact, they were more than skittish, they were bordering on a breakdown. Fear ran like electricity through all of their veins.

Phil sat back down, allowing himself to lean against Rowan's chest. Rowan was the only one he knew before the darkness of the basement, his sandy hair just slightly lighter than the bark of a rowan tree, and his green eyes just slightly brighter than the leaves. Rowan, his name fit him perfectly.

Phil still remembered the day his name changed, wide-eyed, dusty floors, twelve boys sat in a circle, scared shitless and shaking. Phil had thought that he would feel something when he casted away his old identity, when he accepted his new one like a coat of arms, he had imagine his name floating through him like a ghost, stopping in his chest, and lingering there, filling him with a new-found hope, a new found confidence. But this wasn't a film.

Hawthorn. It sounded tough, poisonous, renegade. But in the end it was just another word, a word that tasted bad in his mouth, as if he had swallowed a mouthful of the hawthorn thorns themselves, and they were shuffling around, slicing into his tongue like small knives. It just wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all.

He had spent hours sifting through all of derivations of Hawthorn, of which there were more than a few, trying them on for size. Hank? No. Thorn? No. Hawk? No. Howie? No. Thor? No. Theo? Harry? Haw? They just wouldn't do. But Huck, Huck fitted him immediately, moulding itself around the shape of his pale skin.

He sighed, literally staring into a black oblivion, "Alright then, boys, it's time for bed." Phil called, letting his voice wash over the men, interrupting their yawns and making them rub their eyes. At some point Phil seemed to have adopted the role as leader, the one who the eyes snap to in a crisis, the one who decides how to split the food, and what happens when the power goes out. Phil wasn't the oldest, or the smartest, or the wisest, but maybe he was the kindest, and the group seemed to have warmed to that, to have adopted him as a parent. It's odd how, when in situations of fear, people still continue to elect parental figures, the older ones, to make them feel as if they are less alone. Even a group of twenty year old men would choose someone to make them feel less afraid. It wasn't exactly like a parent though, it was more reciprocal than that, they took care of each other, and fought the demons stood side by side.

Phil felt his head hit the mattress, but rather than being soft and encompassing, it was hard, shooting a small pain through his head. They only had one benefactor, which just about covered the money for the tech equipment. The people on the floor next door? They were less important. Revolutions always had to come first.

Phil felt a leg bang against his, followed by a muffled cry of apology. Phil, as usual, was sharing the mattress. In fact, that night they all were, they had pushed them all together to form one big mattress and blankets and duvets were strewn in a giant pile. Forget strength in numbers, warmth in numbers was what they were interested in. And right then, they needed all the warmth they could get; the basement in winter felt as if you had been stripped naked and cast astray on a floating iceberg. And thanks to the generator, they had no radiators for the night.

One by one, people drifted off, soft snores slowly circulating the room. But Phil couldn't sleep. He hadn't in about a week. He had no idea what he was running off, except perhaps haunting memories, he seemed to be full of them. That's not to say that he didn't shut his eyes, that he didn't fall into what one might call 'sleep', he did that, he did that most nights, but what followed was no more sleep than it was peaceful. As soon as his eyes shut, he saw it on repeat, he saw it over and over again until his eyes opened again. He hated it. He hated it. He hated it. He hated it with a gnawing groan in his stomach and a bile which rose in his throat.

But darkness was inevitable, and despite Phil's fight, eventually his eyes sowed themselves shut with a horrifying finality. He suddenly became a spectator in the cinema of his nightmares, the chairs closing him in, almost sucking him into the universe, their arms like claws clamping him still. And then the screaming began.

Phil watched from behind the crack of a wall, his arms aching harder than the pain in his head, his eyes only just drifting above the wall, and his chin knocking against the stones as he desperately tried to cling on. Phil forgets what the aim was, from time to time, all he knows is that it was a mistake, and it was his mistake. _His mistake. His mistake. _The ghost that has followed him around for what seems like centuries, but can't be more than mere weeks, but with each sleepless night his eyes grow heavy enough for a year. The camera's he thinks, they were there to look at the positioning of the cameras. But his 'dream', if you can call it that, is never about the cameras. Oh lord, if only it was. His dream is about Dan. About Juniper. About Gin. All three names threading together to form the boy that had so often stood before him. And he could see him, small and insignificant, a little black dot against a giant stone wall. So little he had to remind himself that it was Dan. And Phil's heart pounded against the wall, because was Dan was too close, he was too cocky and Dan, like his code name Gin, had the uncanny ability to make Phil do unpredictable things. And Phil's breath was short as he watched him, as he watched him turn the corner, and a scream died in his throat as he saw the soldiers round the corner, unable to even process what was happening as the kick hit, and the cry sounded out, the hopeless cry and Phil screamed and screamed as he tried to hoist himself up, as he tried to clamber over the wall, but hands held him back as he screeched and cried, his torso arching like a wild animal. But the punches were still flying and blood had begun to splatter as Rowan's arms wrapped themselves around, _'sssh' _he hissed into his ear, _'they'll see us, they'll see us!" _and Phil knew he was right but still he fought, the two of them balanced precariously on the forty foot wall as they began to carry Dan's body inside, lifeless yet twitching like a fish who had been out of the water too long. "_Huck, Huck! We have to go, We have to go," _Rowan choked, _"there's nothing we can do, Gin's in there now'" _And Phil seemed to accept defeat like a broken man, slumping and allowing Rowan to attach him onto the rope once more, tears in his eyes as he looked back, Dan's body gone now, his last word snatched by the wind as his hands gripped the stones, "_Dan"_

He could already feel himself writhing as he ripped his eyes open, only to be faced with more darkness, he was living in the nightmare, there was no escape.

There was a face hanging above his head, Phil could just make it out through the darkness, his eyes growing more and more accustomed until he could see the sharp edges of hair falling across the boy's face. And for a second, just for one split moment, he was sure it was Dan. And his chest filled with deluded hope. His eyes lighting up just slightly, but then the boys arms wrapped around him, his chest falling onto Phil, and Phil could feel his ribs pressing against Phil's stomach, and the boy was much too slight, far too skinny to be Dan. And he felt tears begin to leak from his eyes, giving up on hanging on, as his chest fell once more into a spiralling despair. '_sssh sssh' _the voice whispered into Phil's ear, the body beside him now rubbing his arm softly. It was the same voice from the wall, except this time the soothing was softer. Rowan. Wall. Happy memories. Soldiers. No. Blood. No. _Happy memories, _he urged himself. Twitching. No. Remember. Remember. Remember. Remember Dan's soft lips upon his own in the darkness of the corner, the sounds of the sleeping and the cold wall against their backs. Thump. No. Phil started to twitch. Remember hands clutched under desks, Dan's thumb stroking softly over the back of his hand. Screams. No. Remember the whisper of names through the sunken pillows, what once was stolen now returned through the breath of night. Pain. No. Remember glances across rooms and tongues in mouths, remember limbs entangled as the sleeping bag enclosed them, remember hands in hair, tugging softly. Tears trickled down Phil's cheeks and he began to rock, Rowan's arms drawing him in closer,

"We'll get him back, we will, we will, don't worry, and don't worry." But Rowan's tears were dropping onto Phil's skin like rain on the desert.

"I _love _him" Phil whispered through the dark, calling to the night, pleading to the stars, as if it would bring Dan back.

"I know." Rowan whispered back, and he did. It was something that wasn't spoken but seen, not uttered but heard, seen through the way their eyes lit up when they saw each other, seen through secret shuffles closer to each other, heard through their whispers to the stars and heard through the gentle thud of Phil's tears as they hit the ground.

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><p><strong><em>Thank you for reading ! Hope the new year goes well for you :) This is the start of a mini series, and so I am sorry that this is mainly just background but it seemed important. <em>**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thank you for reading, I appreciate it especially as this isn't like a fluff-filled super interesting thing to read in terms of the idea of fanfic. I should be doing revision for my english mock right now but I honestly cannot be bothered. Thank you to witbeyondmeasurexox and its-real-to-us for reviewing :)**_

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><p>Dan was expecting chains. He was expecting shackles, blood curdling screams, stained walls, remnants of corpses hiding in the corners. He was expecting a darkness that crept up on him, a gnawing creature inhabiting his stomach, with a thirst that would never quite quench, a small slither of light bearing down from a small window, like a barcode across the floor, dust particles soaring through the air like the fireflies ugly sister. He was expecting the scratching of whiskers, and rags that stretched across his collarbone and clawed at his chest, he was expecting a guard with a chiselled face, swirling his keys around as if it was a hand signal to death himself, he was expecting a scrappy dog baring its teeth that could rip out his throat with a snap, he was expecting the hope to be drained from him like sap from a tree.<p>

He was expecting darkness. But what he got was light. And somehow that was scarier.

Dan's eyes fluttered open, the light drifting through the window softly, soft like his pillow, like the duvet, like everything in his room. The light had hurt his eyes when he had first arrived, he had felt like a bat who had finally found the sun. Everything was so light, as if they were skating on the edge of a vortex. Sometimes he still missed the stars, he still missed the moon, although they grew less sharp each day, the craters on the moon growing distant, the stars blurring until they were just part of the sky, nothing unique, and nothing special.

Dan liked it here, he liked looking at the trees that covered the skyline, at the roses that grew from the stems of the bushes. He liked being waited on by a smile, and being tucked in at night. He would have said that it was better there than anywhere he had lived before, only he couldn't quite remember how he used to live.

Sometimes he could. Sometimes it would come in flashes, flashes of blackness, flashes of laughter, flashes of cries as the lights flickered, flashes of a bright smile and brighter eyes, of dancing around the kitchen, flashes of heads on shoulders and whispers in ears. Sometimes.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Breakfast time. Dan got his breakfast in bed. And his lunch. And his tea. He never left the room. He never wanted to. The room was the most glorious room he had ever been in, he was contented with watching as the raindrops struck at the flowers, as the curtains wafted in the breeze, he was contented with sitting in a chair in the shaft of sunlight.

Dan slowly sat up, pushing a button that lay just next to bed, like everything else it was white, and seemed to glint like a pearl in the morning light. The maid served him and left, a small smile curving on her lips and her hair tied back into a bonnet. Dan liked bonnets.

On his tray was the same as it was every day, a drink and a piece of toast. Dan didn't know what kind of juice it was, and he never asked, but he did know that it sparkled in the light, the liquid swirling like a whirlpool, and every bit as magical. It glistened the same way the butter did as it lay upon the toast, the same way the soup always did, the same way it did his before-bed hot chocolate did, as if it were capturing the final rays of the sun. Dan never questioned. Questions would be improper of him. He did like how it glistened.

Time seemed to float by in the room, passing through the air like a cloud. The air was a cloud. In fact, Dan was a cloud too. He could barely feeling his bones anymore, his skin felt soft and he felt as if he was lost within a dream. Perhaps he was, perhaps it was all a dream.

Dan poked the flower to his left; a dandelion, its bright yellow petals spilling from its centre like a firework, like a firework erupting across the dark night sky. Dark. It didn't seem a fitting word in that room. A frown fell over him like a storm cloud just before the lightning strikes, just before the bolts erupt from the greyness, like an explosion of anger, like an eruption of all the tension building up inside. And then it struck. And Dan remembered. The lightning struck Dan and he saw him, standing in front of him, black hair gone too long without a cut, falling across his eyes, the eyes that make everything else look grey, make everything else look like the cloud before the strike, the calm before the electricity of the storm, darkness swamped around his face, as it always seemed to in those flashes, but he was clutching something in his hand, like a child might clutch a doll, or a pensioner their last five pounds; a dandelion.

"_I know it's not much."_ The boy whispered, his lips the shade of the roses that grew from the stems of the bushes, _"fuck, it's a fucking weed, but it's all I could find."_ The boy's eyes looked up _"and I wanted to give it to you." _

A knock on the door, a cracking of glass, a crack across the boy's face, his eyes full of wonder and full of stars, a shattered illusion and Dan's eyes opened, and warmth began to flood him again, happiness seeping through his blood. He wanted to feel puzzled, to feel confused, but he couldn't, he could only feel warmth spreading through his veins, only happiness in his bones. He wanted to wonder about the boy, to marvel over the stars that settled in his eyes, over the wisps of moonlight in his hair, but he couldn't. All he could do was smile and say 'enter'.

_Winds howl over hills/But eyes that reach out for stars/Only reflect moons_

He didn't know where the words came from, but they seemed to swim into his head, not flapping like a fish, but slowly seeping in like an eel or a jellyfish, floating like wind on the tide. And he didn't know why but he had a sudden urge to look down at his wrist, his wrist that was covered by a long sleeve, white and cotton, like pyjamas or long johns or something from a past world.

That was the weirdest thing. Dan had his mind, he knew that, and maybe that was part of why he never questioned. He didn't know he was missing anything; ask him for past kings and queens and he could roll them off his tongue without question, but as for the boy with the stars in his eyes, with the moon on his hair; his secrets, like space, would have to stay a mystery for now.

He slowly rolled up the cotton sleeve, the maid already at the door, having placed his tray down on the small table by the window. He gasped a little, jumped a little, as if there was an unexpected wave in the sea, an unexpected gust of wind across the tide.

Written in deep black ink across his wrists was one word; _stars. _

Dan's head felt so fuzzy, so blurry, and Dan wondered how he hadn't felt it before. He wondered how he had been happy to float, to be a cloud, to let his mind sleep on and on, because now it felt like a prison, it felt like a glass shard he had to break. The face, the eyes, they were haunting him, he needed to know whose they were. He needed to know who the boy was, and why he felt this unsettling feeling in his stomach, why his lips wanted to itch upwards when he saw his face, why his hands ached to be able to wrap themselves around his back, and why his wrists told him of stars.

And then there was another knock, and Dan's head felt so loud he thought it might explode, and there was a crescendo that was only getting louder, like the light of a thousand drums, like cymbals banging through his ears and drumsticks banging against his front lobe and all he wanted to do was throw his hands over his ears and curl on the floor, and rock, and let the drums consume him, let his heart become a drum, his mind a slave to the percussion as it beat on. But he couldn't. He had to keep a straight face as the maid walked in, the same small smirk, the same grey tray and the same pretty bonnet as she placed it on the table. A word shot through his head; fourth wall. What was the saying? He knew it. He knew it. He knew it. '_You're breaking the fourth wall' _and he was, he could feel it, he could feel it cracking, as if his own hands were picking at the glass, poking it, slamming his fist and watching red blood trickle from his veins like a river, bit by bit as he desperately tried to stick his hand through the smashed glass, and out into reality like the a dead hand rising from a grave. Already he could see the shimmering liquid getting darker, and darker, and darker, but his breath was growing short and he could feel himself drifting as the door opened and the doctor walked through, his coat blacker than usual, always blacker, why blacker, is that reality? Is reality black? Was he in reality yet? The doctor was here. With his machine. It was time again.

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><p><em><strong>Thanks for reading and please review if you can :)<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thank you to wonderfulfun, its-real-to-us, Malon1227 for reviewing, hope you enjoy _**

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><p>Two months. Two months of waking in the dark. Two months of watching the lights flicker from the dampened mattress, hoping that they would just burn out, that they would just dwindle until only darkness remained. At least darkness was something. At least it was solid. At least it was something tangible, something unmoving, not the flickering lights of the hope. Not the maybe he's dead, maybe he's not. Not the imagining of thrusted knives and machines which beeped in the night. Not the twisting in Phil's chest. The darkness could seep there. He could lie still and accept darkness. But uncertainty kept him moving, kept the pain snaking within his chest.<p>

Dejection covered the camp like settling poisonous fog, the hole where 'Gin' should have been growing wider with every day, until it was a black hole swirling, jutting its arms out and threatening to pull them all inside. Threatening to leave only the bodies of the boys who felt as if they had sold their souls some time ago; a rip-off on a dingy market stall.

It was as if the basement felt it too. The cupboards lay bare in the corner, their empty stomachs calling out, and the fridge had long stopped its buzzing. The usual laughter was replaced with the distant clicking and the gentle grumble of mithering stomachs.

The basement was full of elastic bands; elastic bands being stretched too far, always too far, their elastic growing thinner and whiter until they snapped, until they tore with an almighty rumble, flinging in all directions, taking it out on each other. They hadn't seen the benefactor in a few weeks and their last big hack had been before Dan had been dragged inside, every single boy was just an elastic band, elastic tension building inside their elastic chests.

A slight knock on the door, Phil rolled over. It was Rowan. His face made him want to cry. '_The face of an angel' _he'd heard it said, he'd heard it said many a time, spilled from the mouths of little old women pulling small canvas trunks or mothers as they smiled over a pan of soup, the smoke drifting and fogging their rimmed glasses. The face of an angel. Living in hell.

And Rowan's face seemed to drop too as his eyes drifted over Phil's body. His figure, which had always been skinny, growing thinner by the day, his fingernails chipped and inhabited by small particles of dirt as they desperately clung to the unwashed duvet they shared, his hair sticking to his forehead with grease.

"You need to shower man," Rowan joked, hoping for a smile, anything that was even remnant of the boy he used to know, the one who wasn't shrunken by rebellion, the one who hadn't given up on the world, but Phil only stared at him sadly.

"_Huck,_" Rowan said, and Phil met his eyes.

"What?" But Phil's voice was hoarse, as if a sand desert was swirling around his mouth, the grains scratching and burning at the soft skin of his throat, throwing sand into his eyes as slow tears began to fall.

"Huck" Rowan said again, moving towards Phil, his face solemn as he wrapped his arms around him. His hands were cold as they stroked across the back of Phil's neck making him flinch in discomfort.

"I can't do this." Phil said, letting himself slump into Rowan's dirtied hoodie.

"Of course you can," but the truth was that Phil felt as if he were spiralling into despair, because it wasn't just Dan, it was everything, it was this god damn regime, it was the memories of old warmth that haunted him at night, of old days before people had been rounded up, before 'special measures' had been set up, before the 'disappearances', back where a person could speak without feeling their chest tighten, could live without constant fear hanging over them. It was the fucking snow that wouldn't stop falling, the cupboards that wouldn't stop groaning, and the worry, the constant anxious fear that followed him, because what if they weren't good enough? And you'd think it would be something else, you'd think it'd be the idea of men in black suits shooting them all on sight, but the truth was that Phil hated suffering, he hated it like a volcano that won't stop erupting or a river that won't stop flowing, he hated the idea of thousands, if not millions of people, suffering, small or large, whether thrown alongside Dan in the dungeons, or whether unable to live in their own home, to die on their own streets, and sometimes Phil heard that fucking snow falling against the lid of the bunker, and he wondered how long it would take for him to die, if he snuck through the darkness, if he buried himself in the ice, how long would it take for his heart to take its final pound? For his lungs to stop breathing? For his skin to grow part of the snow that surrounded him? He was floating through space but even then it wasn't peaceful, he couldn't just fucking let go, he had to care about the fact he couldn't breathe, about the burning atmosphere below him. He couldn't just let it be. And it was suffocating him.

And he meant to sound desperate, to sound choked like he felt, deprived of air like the swirling vortex inside of him, but instead his voice came out low, it came out flat, "No, Ro, I really can't." he spoke, flopping onto his lap with a terrifying finality.

And there was a pause. And then Rowan spoke. And when he did it was with caution, with a slowness that comes from thought and care.

"Look Huck, look at me." Rowan said, brushing Phil's hair from his spilling eyes,

"You're the strongest person I know,"

"and we need you, the team needs you,"

"but that isn't important,"

And then Rowan's voice sped up, as if he too were choking on invisible air,

"because you need yourself, we're in the middle of a war against wrong, in the middle of a rescue mission, and you need yourself, you need yourself so that in ten years' time when all is peaceful and you're sitting on a rocking chair with a fucking grandchild on your lap, you can look back and be glad you fucking survived, you need yourself so you can be glad you didn't give up, so that you can be glad you kept fighting the power that held a hand to your throat, you need yourself so you can experience the world that you deserve, that you're entitled to"

Rowan looked down, "It's in the fucking contract"

Phil laughed, a weak laugh, the kind that looks like a rainbow, a smile lighting up the face and tears in the eyes. "_Ro," _Phil said giggling, _"I'm fucking gay."_

"I know. Adoption." Rowan said, staring down at him as if it were all so blatantly obvious.

"Do you even know how old grandparents are?" Phil laughed, turning his head. "_Ten _years, Ro, really?"

"Shut up," Rowan muttered, pushing Phil off his lap and onto the mattress, "you get the point."

"I do." Phil paused, "Thank you."

The lights were still flickering and the cupboards still screamed for the loss of their children, and the fridge's corpse still stood in the corner like some kind of gothic Christmas tree, and the rats still scuttered across the floor, and Phil's toes still escaped his thin socks, and he still stood on a rusted nail, and his stomach was still a small monster but somehow, slowly, as the snow grew lighter, and the sun grew brighter once more, he began to relish the hope that the flickering lights thrust onto him. He became filled with hope, hope that acted like a pencil inside of his chest, drawing up a plan on his beating heart.

He pushed open the door, slamming his hand three times against the wall. Six faces spun around.

"Guys," Phil said, his voice building like a waterfall, with an edge of grinning, his happiness seeming infectious as it appeared to blow away the hovering fog ever so slightly, "I have a plan." And the grin seemed to explode upon his face as six sets of feet scuttered to the table, fingers wiping away smashed glass, and hooking around stained mugs, like a fleet of diligent fairies.

And Phil threw the paper down, with a sarcastic cry of 'right boys', because, sometimes, that was the only way to survive, humour, and because the whole situation was so ridiculous that sometimes laughter was necessary. And his fingers crawled over the paper as words flew from his mouth, the flickering lights passing their hope to the boys. Making their flowers bloom once more, their branches grow stronger like the coming of spring. Because that's the miraculous thing about trees, they'll grow anywhere, in dark corners, abandoned forests, through the middle of houses, and pianos, they're strong and they were adaptable. They had tried the tests of time. They were everything the boys aspired to be.

And days turned into weeks as invisible seals seemed to grow around the boys, suddenly the cold's bite wasn't as harsh, hunger didn't burrow quite so deep, the hands' of sadness seemed to hover rather than grip. Phil had hope. He had hope that maybe, just maybe, things might be okay.

The rain lashed against the roof like the hurling of stones, the wind howling around the walls, the cupboard doors shaking and rattling. The fridge had already collapsed, a defeat that caused panic as feet stumbled around in the darkness, rushing to get the computers stored safely away, de-wired from the generator that went out days ago, the darkness drawing like the shaking of a fist. They were alone. In the darkness. And the room was shaking. The boys had fumbled around in the dark, hands grappling for any mattresses and duvets they could find, piling them as if building a fort against the forthcoming darkness. And they huddled together, limbs entangled as each of them tried to get closer together, somebody's nails gripping into Phil's arm, the nails somehow digging through two t-shirts and a jumper. But it was still cold, and somehow the collective warmth still left them cold as Phil swore he could hear somehow crying, their tears whipped by the raging winds. And Phil couldn't help but think about the sheer fragility of their situation, so much of their world had depended upon the generator, like a climber upon a rope, or a camper upon a fire, they had no light, no warmth, no food, and worst of all no connection to the tenuous outside world. No visitors had dared to come in such a storm, the phone lines down. And stupid, childish things kept winding into Phil's mind, things from old snippets of films and songs, and _culture, _Phil never thought he could be stripped of something as inherent to his life, something he never really thought about, the idea of media, and the perceptions he shared, the idea that everyone thought about dragons and had heard of '_the titanic'. _ And really what are people without the things that they know, and the things that they love, and an ability to express that? And with the wind howling and the cold raging, it became obvious how fragile humans are, but also how strong all at the same time, because there they were, seven young men, having escaped, forced underground, hunted, moved continuously, basement to basement, starving and freezing and yet, as the whole world seemed to shake, they were still there, the lid of their tank banging ferociously.

"I'm scared" someone whispered, and everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The unspoken had been spoken. And even though it was pitched black, and even though Phil had no reason to believe he was still there, that his body still existed except the small rumble of his stomach, he could feel all eyes looking to him, their leader; great Huck.

"Okay so never have I ever"

"Ugh flashbacks" he heard Ash call, as the wind blew a cupboard door wide open.

"Do we even have any alcohol?" Cedar shouted.

"I dunno, I think we have some in the side cupboard," Phil said, gesturing to the side, accidently hitting Rowan in the forehead.

"Dude," Rowan muttered,

"There's some whisky I think, I saw it the other day," Yew called, having to shout over the rising wind.

"We won't be able to fucking see it." Ash called,

"Then get the fucking lamp," Forrest called,

"Are you sure? It's the last one." Yew pointed out,

"This is of high importance," Phil stated,

"In other words, fuck it." Ash laughed, and Phil could almost see the smiles through the darkness.

Fumbling and clattering through the darkness, somehow Forrest managed to get both the lantern and whisky without tripping and soon they were sat in a circle, the howling winds already seeming more distant.

"Okay," said Forrest, rubbing his hands together maliciously, casting his mind back to old threads of sleepovers and all-nighters in the whispering library. "never have I ever been skinny dipping"

There came a collective groan as four hands reached for the golden liquid, liquid that seemed to be shimmering in the pale lantern light. "Don't regret it." came a shout from ash,

"It was fucking freezing," seconded Elm, drawing eyes to his face,

"Really man?" Cedar shouted,

"You don't believe me," he said, raising his eyebrows before knocking the whisky down his throat,

"Looks like our baby's all grown up" commented Yew,

A sound of "fuck off," rising over the track of laughter.

"Your turn," Ash shouted, pointing at Yew, and already Phil felt more comfortable, it was easy to forget sometimes, living underground and being such pressure, that they were all in their twenties, that if life was normal they would be out on Friday nights drinking instead of trying to crack an especially _trying _code.

"Okay," Yew said, glancing around the circle, "Never have I ever cut class" causing Rowan and Phil to look at each other and burst out laughing,

"What?" Cedar called,

"Did we ever even go to class?" Rowan said, reaching for a shot glass and tipping it down his throat and Phil was reminded of whole days just spent lying on the grass, or around Rowan's room, video game controller in hand, weeks spent confused, before whispered confessions of sexuality, the clouds slowly drifting as everything else turned dark, as if as long as they didn't move from staring at the stars, everything would be okay. Of course, it wasn't.

"So Ash, you go,"

He paused before blurting, "Never have I ever kissed another man," and everyone seemed to hold their breaths a little, the wind getting louder once more as it raged through the room,

"What are you doing," Phil said, pushing into Ash, "_deliberately _trying to get me drunk?" he laughed, reaching forward for his third drink, his fingers hooking around the glass and tilting it against his lips, but eyes were still caught on him. "What? I thought everyone already knew?"

"Oh we did," Forrest called, "we just didn't know you knew we knew"

"Well now you know that I knew that you knew,"

"What is this, a friends episode?" Rowan shouted,

"The fucking Halloween special," Ash called, causing spluttered laughter as Phil choked on the whisky, Rowan hitting him furiously on the back as the boys collapsed into a lump, unable to tell in the dim light, which was boy and which was duvet. And Phil was happy.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thank you to its-real-to-us for reviewing.**_

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><p>One. Two. Three. Lift. A wrangled scream. A scream of fingers curling over Adam's apples, of scalpels scratching against skin like pens on parchment, turning the white snow red, of legs dipping into raging lava as the dark turned to light, seeping and infecting, hands shooting to eyes. The shadow boys saw the light and it burned. It seared into their corneas like lasers, shrunken to the corner, sheet thrown over, hidden in plain sight; Phil had seen it once. The torture machine. He'd seen it on an inside mission. And he couldn't remove it from his mind.<p>

Unfortunately.

The trapdoor hung open, the rusted metal fallen against the grass. And although Phil had seen that door every day, had passed under it and stared at the roof, hoping against hope that one day he would hear a light knock, and his heart would leap from the river, scattering silver fish and curving in joy, and Dan's eyes would reach his, his smile like a spotlight, cutting through the black; it looked different to him somehow. Older, uglier, more metallic like the rusting conveyer belts of old factories he had once rummaged in when food was short. Maybe it was just the way the light hit it, illuminating the rust as it glimmered, or maybe it was the grass that curled over the edges, bright and fresh, old meets new.

Phil was surprised to see the snow had melted. He had forgotten what the outside world looked like.

Light swung into the basement like a rope swing, with promises of happiness, of a laughter that floated on summer air, but Phil knew better than to trust promises. When you have grown used to the dark, even the light seems sinister.

A cry of laughter broke out. "We are _literal _vampires" Ash called, lifting his hands from his eyes for a split second before his palms jumped back to cover them up.

"What a great start."

"Right," Phil said, opening his eyes and staring straight into the bright light, in the hope that he would get over it. "Last check," he took a deep breath, "do people know the plan?"

"Yes boss." Drawled Ronan and Phil shot him a roll of the eyes, before turning back around.

"Ash, Yew, Forrest coming with me, Rowan, Cedar, Elm, staying here."

"Affirmative."

"This feels like an actual action film" whispered Ash,

"With significantly less sex." Yew called.

Laughter.

"People!" Phil shouted,

"Someone's touchy," Forrest said, raising his eyebrows.

"Right, okay, Ash, have you the rope?"

"Yes."

"Have you three got the walkie talkies?"

"Yup."

"Forrest have you got the spray?"

"Of course." Forrest said, rubbing his hands together.

"Binoculars? Lock picking kit?"

"Yes, yes"

"Rowan the cameras are hacked?"

"Yes,"

"And everyone's ready?"

Rowan put his hand lightly on Phil's shoulder, "everything's going to be fine."

Phil pushed off from the ground, hooking his hands over the edge and swinging himself up, landing rather ungraciously onto the dewed grass. He could feel the moisture seeping into his black camisoles, the cold air reaching down, caressing his face as if greeting a new son.

Somehow in the last two years he'd gone from pale nerd, to even paler, stronger rebel. He could feel his gun pressing against his upper thigh as he stared at the sky, the clouds moving softly as if drifting on a wave, as if it didn't even know what was happening below it. He prayed to god, to the stars, to anyone who would listen, that he wouldn't have to use the gun.

He jutted his arm down, hoisting Ash up, then Yew, and then Forrest in a joint effort. Each one of their faces set like stone, looking somehow both younger and older in their get up. Each one of them pretending to be brave, laughing away the nerves but unable to shake them. Each one knew each other too well to be fooled by the masks, but each one seemed to accept it silently, nevertheless. It seemed that human instincts never fully disappeared.

Their shoes crunched against the gravel as they scaled against rocks, against walls, against anything they could find, the shadows boys pulled towards any shadow they could find.

It was eerily quiet, as if even the elements were taking a vow of silence, the wind gone, the rain refusing to drop, the snow burrowed within a cloud, and not a single human in site. That was the scariest part about living underground for Phil; the lack of communication. They could be the last ones left on earth, there could have been a magnetic storm that turned people into cannibals, or a tsunami wave that buried the towns, a freak plague, or a giant all-mighty bunny rabbit who claimed the position of supreme ruler. At that point the prospect didn't even make him laugh. Anything was possible.

Their hands grappled with the rock surface, its silver tongue curling, whipping them back to the ground. But then there was land. And the sky seemed a little bit closer, but so much further away, and Phil knew where the humans were, if Phil could even call them humans anymore. They certainly weren't an entire human species, the women taken and locked away, no arms around shoulders, no children peeking from behind legs, space left in between bodies as if they were scared to touch, scared to trust; it was hanging day.

Gallows like trees, gnarled branches hanging down, craving necks, craving the snap of skin, the crackle of bone as their roots dug further underground. The gallows seemed to swap in anticipation. Would they be a screamer? Would they shout out in their final moments? Would they hang still or would they lash out in an attempt to fly free? Would they go fast? Or slow?

Bile climbed the darkness of Phil's throat.

The wisps of air seemed to form the portrait in front of him, like a recreation, like a play for entertainment, the kind with actors that once held glimmering statues as there words washed over people.

A guard poking his back with a poker. His eyes unable to look away. The old man's throat rasped, growing redder like blood spreading through water, like the blooming of a bud, like a thunderstorm through a summer's sky, like spilled pencils or the stretch of a smile before death. His eyes grew bigger. Whiter. His legs thrashed. Out of his own control. The rope tightened, cutting into his neck as the man stopped moving, his body still swinging in the wind, dead to the world. An empty cheer filled the square. Phil had felt it erupt from his own throat like a crack of lightning, a whip against will, as tears stung in his eyes. And he vowed he would never have to watch one again, he would rather let the darkness consume him.

Phil wanted to retch at the memory as tears grew in his eyes, falling to the swaying grass, to the beetles that crawled below, the creatures that knew nothing of capital punishment. He fell to his knees. He felt arms wrap around him, hands lifting him up, but he couldn't feel his own legs, his whole body falling back onto bodies as if he was the last one alive in a mass grave.

"Huck, Huck!" The name felt foreign to him, as he imagined the man with the beard, the red jacket and the hat, his hook glimmering in the sun, his face leering as he came closer, closer, closer again. "Huck!"

"Hanging…. Day…" Phil rasped as his support system became weaker, almost causing them all to fall back onto the dew grass.

"We have to go man," called Yew,

"It's so fucked up," Ash ranted, "so fucked up," He dragged Phil to his feet, and along the mountain, "we have to fucking go man, there's nothing we can do."

"He's right," Forrest whispered, "we have to get Gin, and carry on as we were,"

"And then what?!" Phil roared, causing Yew to leap at him, smothering him with his hand,

"They'll fucking here us."

"So what?"

"So what, so fucking what Huck have you lost your mind? So they'll string us up by the rope and watch us hang that's so fucking what!" he breathed, his face growing redder.

"And? They're going to get us eventually."

A slap. Pain stinging across his face. Ash stood above him, his lip curling in anger.

"And we can do something, we are doing something, what if everyone thought like that? What if everyone did huh? Then there'd be no fucking rebellion. Is that what you want Huck? Your family rotting away, tied to bars as their flesh melts? Your precious Gin with a bullet through his brain huh? Is that what you want Huck? Wake yourself the fuck up."

Phil's eyes widened. The world stopped. The grass stopped knocking against his knees. Silence stung at tear ducts.

He pushed off his palm, wobbling as he stood on his feet. He looked Ash in the eye.

"Sorry man."

"No, you're right." Phil scraped "Let's go."

"I reckon it's another half an hour." Murmured Yew, hoisting his backpack further onto his back.

The wall seemed to grow larger the closer they got, until it enveloped them, its shadow stretching for miles, each stone seeming like a mountain, each groove an individual path. Phil gulped.

"You got the rope?"

Ash nodded, "Man it's tall."

"I had forgotten." Phil sighed

"I don't think we can get all the way up there can we?" choked Yew, taking a small step back. Forrest grabbed him by the collar,

"Get back in the shade, we can't get caught," he hissed

"Rowan? Huck to Rowan?" Phil uttered down the walkie talkie,

"Rowan here," came the crackled voice.

"Is there currently sight on the wall?"

"One guard by the left wall" Rowan paused, "He can see the surrounding wall yes."

"Is he moving up and down?"

"Yes, along the left wall."

"How many guards in total?"

"Outside 4 inside we estimate around 30 people but only 10 guards." There was a pause, "it's hanging day," he whispered, "they're all at the town centre."

"We know," Phil said sadly.

Phil stuck his back against the wall, his fingers splayed. He was sure his heart was going to explode. It was beating faster than the wheels of a speeding train, around and around, he was sure he was going to faint. It wasn't the prospect of being caught, _that_ had been hanging above his head for as long as he could remember. It was the moments before that terrified him. The moment where he leaped down from the wall and a head whipped around, the moment where his eyes met the eyes of the enemy, where he turned the corner, his head hitting the rotund body of a guard. It was that moment. The moment where everything was on the line. Life or death. Escape or capture. A grey line, like a tightrope, with no choice but to run across, his legs pumping, his heart failing, all the time knowing that it was no good, the breath of the enemy in his ear, climbing the skin of his neck. The moment where the survival instinct kicks in, where everything gets blurry and yet everything focuses. The grey line. He was terrified of it.

And Dan had become the grey line. Something he was both obsessed with and terrified of, something he both loved and feared. Because somewhere in his mind he knew that the Dan he had known, the one he had kissed in the plain moonlight, whose hair he had stroked as their legs tangled in a sleeping bag, who had listened to his spilled mind; _somewhere_ he knew that that Dan had been erased the moment the guards' arms had wrapped around him. In his mind he knew that the Dan he could see today would be different, the stars would no longer settle in his eyes, his lips would no longer tilt the same. He just didn't know _how _different. And it was killing him.

He gazed down at his wrist, _'moons' _scratched across. The lights had gone out in his sky.

"Okay," came the crackling voice again. Rowan. "you have two ropes right?"

"Affirmative."

"Take one to the wall on the other side. Hook it. Run and hide in the woods. Distract the guard. Hook it where you are now and climb."

Phil paused. This was real. It was happening.

"Thanks." He breathed.

"What's the chance of the distractor getting caught?" muttered Ash

"Getting seen is pretty high." Rowan gulped, "But actually getting caught, I would say is low."

Each of them looked around, their faces brave but Phil knew that below their facades each one of them was melting with fear.

"I'll go." Nodded Yew, his black hair billowing in the wind and his face utterly unreadable as he shuffled forward, grabbing at the second rope from where it was looped around Ash's forearm.

"I'll go." Ash said, moving his arm out of Yew's grasp.

"I will."

"I will!"

"I will!"

"_Boys_" Phil urged, "We don't have time for this, Yew you go. Ash hand him the rope." Ash reluctantly held out his arm and Yew took the rope, taking a final nod before turning around and running the length of the wall.

Moments. Of. Agonising. Silence.

A crackle.

_Go._

The boys jerked to life, like puppets when darkness descends, hurling the rope into the air, feeling the metal hook fasten onto the wall. A slight tug. A breath of air. Phil held onto the rope, his palms sweating as the twine dug into the lines on his hands, forming their own patterns, falling down grooves of time. His feet pressed firmly on the wall, he could feel Ash's eyes from below. His chest began to swirl, his feet shaking as small beads of sweat formed on his forehead, rolling down like raindrops in the mid-day sun.

Think about Dan.

Think about the way his hair falls into his eyes, shining with a healthy glow like a moon riding on a wave. The way his lips tugged when he smiled, his cheek sinking to form his dimple. The slight tilt of his head when he was confused. The scrawl of 'stars' across his wrist, a drunken promise of forever.

Think about Dan. The top of the wall was still miles away.

Phil's fingers grappled at the top brick, his muscles screaming as he forced himself on top. His eyes sowed themselves shut, afraid of what they might see, afraid of the red dots scattering the ground, the sweeping silver cameras, the monsters that lay in the depths. In the distance he could hear screaming as three more red guards ran out. Slam. Phil lay flat against the wall, his own breathing pounding in his ears as his heart tried to push against the wall.

The distraction had worked.

Guns pressed against their thighs, walkie talkies pressed against their stomachs as they set their first foot on solid ground. Phil felt dizzy.

"Guards?" Phil mumbled into the device,

"Only 2, one out front, one out back. None should have sight of you." Came rowan's voice.

"Go from the side," Cedar added, "use the spray."

Phil gulped, his eyes growing whiter. "You got the spray?" He said turning to Forrest, focusing on his green eyes as a form of distraction.

Forrest led the way, his shaking knees causing him to waver from the path, Phil's breath catching and dying in his throat every time his foot nudged against the grass.

The corner. Eyes peeked round, hands gripping onto the wall like a friends scene, each of their heads falling atop of each other's. One guard all in red. His eyes seemed to wander, looking up at the clouds with interest. He twiddled his thumbs as he marched, his feet falling to an irregular beat. Because the guards were just humans too. And Phil forgot that sometimes. He dressed them up as monsters, their red jackets the pooling of human blood, their black boots deaths own wake. But the reality was that they were humans, scared shitless to set a toe out of line, maybe lured their by the promise of their lives back.

But all promises were empty. Phil knew that.

Closer. Closer. Phil shut his eyes, his ears picking up the noise. The spray had gone. The man slumped against the wall, his eyes firmly shut, the same smirk of worry written upon his face. A face like the moon. Pale, it seemed to glow. Phil tilted his head in wonder as he saw the man being lifted, arms hooked under his armpits as Ash and Forrest carried him.

"You know you _could_ help." Ash muttered, snapping Phil from his trance.

They dragged him behind a rather large rhododendron bush, Phil hoisting the man's legs up absentmindedly. He didn't even know his name. But then again, maybe the man didn't even. It was easy to lose such things nowadays.

The sky was growing blacker, the blue watercolour being flicked with grey salts, and Phil feared that soon the grey salts would reign down on him. Then again, maybe it would help; nature's own camouflage.

His eyes caught on a window, about three floors up, rose's crawling up the walls like a ladder, and Phil was immediately reminded of something romantic, something scrawled upon pages of the past, the word 'thee' lingering for effect.

And that was before he found the eyes.

The eyes he would know anywhere; through the hailing beat of a storm, as the rain lashed against his skull, demanding for more, more, more as the wind howled and leaves ripped through the air, like birds taking flight before being torn like a page, as lightning cracked the sky like a scar, ripping the sky open to hear the cry of thunder, through the dimming fog as it crept closer and closer, wrapping itself around his legs like rope, like ties bounding him to the forest; he would still know the eyes. And he would follow them to the end of the earth.

They shone like stars.

"What are you looking at?" Forrest asked, becoming increasingly more worried at Phil's seeming paralysis.

But Phil could not speak, only raise a shaking finger, letting the boy's eyes stretch and fly up the wall and to the window; where a boy stood with his head pressed against the glass, his eyes slightly duller than before.

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><p><em><strong>I have not forgotten about sharpest lives ! it will be up soon. Stress. Thanks for reading !<strong>_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Thanks to Its-real-to-us and Ellie for reviewing! **_

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><p>Dan. Dan. Branches grew in Phil's mind of all the things that came along with that word, with the name; '<em>Dan'. <em>The smell of warmth, heads tucked into chests, the weaving of feet within sleeping bags, turned heads and blushed cheeks, eyes catching across the room like fishhooks, the deepening pains as their wrists became stained _because who cares in a world for the dead, _a whisper of eternity, a promise of forever that could never be kept.

And somewhere they both knew that.

Only now it was real.

Everyone stood still, silent, sombre. Months of planning, weeks of deliberation, of shooting pains and aches, the tall gap on the sofa where the boy should have lay. And then he was stood in front of them, and they had found the piece, the missing piece for their board, like a child with a jigsaw of _farm animals, _the edges bitten and chewed but still alive somehow. And here was the missing piece. The missing piece. Dressed in rags with his fringe sweeping the wrong way. And no one had a fucking clue, they could only stare like the sun had burst into flames and was littering the earth with cold ash like snow, like doom's day had arrived and a burning hand was reaching down, its fingers extending to reach out to throats. Could only glare like the final acorn on the final tree, waiting for a hand to snatch out and take, knowing they were not important enough, they would never be important enough to let their fingers curl around that acorn. For that acorn to be theirs. Only now it was. And it wasn't. And all they could do was stare.

Phil took a deep breath. Somehow it was all on him. Again. And he wondered why he always felt forty instead of twenty one. And he worried about his worry lines.

"Go!" Phil shout whispered, but Dan was still only staring, the top half of his torso hanging from the window, pale and ghosted, and Phil feared if he leant any further he would fall.

And it all felt very wrong.

Dan's eyes were screwed small, as if a metaphorical finger was hanging in the air, trying to find the spot, trying to place the man who stood in front of him. The man all in black with a gun. Only he didn't reek of threat like the others. Like the others did before the pale liquid came. And he looked inherently fearful. And Dan was sure he knew him from somewhere. And he felt compelled to look down at his wrist, to study the scrawl that was so newly found, _'stars', _and Dan wondered whether the man had anything to do with it.

And they were both looking but neither were really seeing.

Phil felt a strong urge to cry.

"Huck." Forrest said, and Phil looked at him, and he could feel the water in his eyes like raindrops and he felt as if he should just get out his black umbrella out there and then, as if he should just march, as if he should just throw the handful of dirt to the ground in defeat, because the Dan he knew was gone, and there hadn't even been a funeral.

"Huck" Ash shot sharply at Phil, his words strong and yet his face collapsing like buildings in a storm, crumbling with such ease and yet such force. "Huck, we don't have much time."

And Phil nodded. Maybe all wasn't lost. He couldn't even believe it as he thought it.

"Gin." The boys whispered, and Dan's head tilted like that of a small dog, as if he understood, and yet everything was foggy, as if he was trying to recall the last time that word had stepped through the mist to greet him.

Forrest noticed the reaction, but he pressed on, there was no room for emotions anymore. And Phil wished he had learnt that like he was supposed to.

"Gin, we're going to throw you this rope, okay?" Forrest said, jolting his head to turn behind him. Phil tried to feel scared, to feel anxious, to feel distressed like he should, but he could only feel the fog of discontent, of everything being over, of him floating as if upon the sea.

Dan nodded.

"And then you are going to take it." He gestured with his hands. Dan looked bemused. "And you are going to tie it around that knob there." He again gestured the swirling and Dan's smile grew. "But you have to be quiet." Forrest widened his eyes and put a finger to his lips. Dan laughed softly.

"Just because I don't know what the hell anything is, or who I am, or where I am, doesn't mean I can't speak English anymore" Dan said, and it was meant to be a joke, but Phil could tell it hit him harder than he meant it to, he could tell by the dimming orb of light in his eyes. Because there was the same dimming light in Phil's eyes. He had been hit one too many times. He was approaching black out.

Nobody laughed.

Forrest threw the rope, stepping backwards to make it taunt and Dan's toes curled over the edge of the window pane. And he reminded Phil so much of an old film he used to watch, one about boys who never grew old and flying, and a man with a hook for a hand. It was the tunic. It looked like a night gown, or a pillow case, aging brown and stretching just below his knees. Dan grabbed onto the rope. And Ash and Phil grabbed the rope to steady it.

Dan's feet hit the cold path. And the screaming started.

They seemed to be bound by the ties of surprise, of shock, of fear, of cold, call it anything but know that they stood there. That they stayed stock still and watched the man, who looked significantly more fragile in his tunic than they would have liked to remember, his mouth the mouth of a cave; open and shrilling like the beast that has woken from the winter.

It's seconds but it felt like days and Ash leapt forward, his eyes more white than blue, slamming his hand into Dan's mouth, but the screaming ripped through it like silk, rippling and Phil could hear feet pounding upon the path. _And oh god this is the end, this is the end. _And Phil's legs moved independently from his own body as he lunged forward, tugging at the bottom of Dan's tunic as the boys stared with disbelief but it tore like a cloud and Phil shut his eyes like a bolt, tighter, tighter, and he didn't want to do it but he had to. He pulled back his fist like the squeezing of the trigger, whacking his fist into Dan's head.

And the screaming stopped

Phil couldn't see for tears.

He wrapped the cloth ripped from the tunic around Dan's mouth, making sure to avoid his nose, but at that point he wanted to wrap it round his nose, wanted to watch Dan suffocate and die, it would be so much easier than living. He wanted to wrap it around his whole face too, think of somewhere happy, somewhere warm and die. But _something, something _told him no, maybe it was the lulling alertness of Dan's eyes, like a child crying for help, maybe it was the childish belief that Dan, _his Dan, _could be saved. Phil didn't now. What he did know was that he had to run.

Ash hoisted Dan on to his back, wincing as he kicked him, again and again. And Phil ripped more fabric from the tunic to wrap it around Dan's ankles and wrists but there was a man right behind them, a man dressed all in red and the gates weren't close enough not even close to close enough and the man had a gun, and a family locked to chains, and he didn't know they were never going to let them free and all they could do was run and run and hope that the bullets wouldn't rip into their backs, wouldn't shatter up their spines, and burst open the vessels in their legs.

And somehow they made it to the gate, stumbling, and the man went for more help.

Dan's lifeless form fell from Ash's shoulder without so much of a twitch, his eyes dead. Phil hoped he hadn't done any damage. But he hoped that he had.

And the world was more twisted than a rope. But then again, it always had been. And Forrest threw Dan onto his soldier like a lumberjack, only wincing slightly. And they ran as fast as they could and Forrest shouted as he ran.

"Huck!" "Huck, did you see that?"

"What?" Phil screamed, Huck shouted, it was all too much. His lungs were burning.

"In Gin's room, the corner"

Phil didn't even dare gulp.

"They know Huck."

And Phil almost stopped running.

"They _know._ They accessed Dan's memories. They _stole _them." He spluttered.

Ash stopped dead. "There's no where we can go."

Phil felt the world growing black, the trees turning into tiny dots, the ground growing nearer and nearer.

Everything was a fire. And Phil only wanted to burn.

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><p><em><strong>Thanks for reading, please review!<strong>_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Here ye's go. Thanks to bright-miss-sunshine, Ellie, IonaCarta and Tsubasa for reviewing! I hope you like it ish ah.**_

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><p>And they ran. And ran. And ran.<p>

Hope shredded, falling from them like torn pieces of clothing, but their feet still pounded against the sandy floors, kicking up storms. The butterfly effect. Chaos theory. A distant flicker like a lightbulb, from a past time, one filled with dusty books and spinning shelves, with welling red blood at the flick of a page. Every action has a reaction. A kid kicking up sand can cause a hurricane. And right then Phil just wished it fucking would already. Wished the winds would swirl into an every growing greyness, taking everything with it, destroying the whole world in a bang, because god knew he was tired, he was so fucking tired. Tired of his heart beating, tired of empty wishes like wells, of parched dreams like tongues. His last light had been put out the moment he had seen Dan's face once more. And it wasn't the pinnacle of his existence, it wasn't like the tearing apart of Dan had been the peak of the mountain, Phil hurling down the snow, falling to a certain death with a smile, it was _everything, _the kind of tiredness, of cumulative bad events that people saw, people didn't need to poke him with the eye of a needle to find the cause, they already knew, it screamed from his aura like a child in distress. His insides reflecting what he was.

And then he was left running. To what? From what? Phil wanted a hurricane so fucking bad.

Ash's knees buckled, his face hitting the ground with a thump and Phil let the final tear drop to the ground, wasted on the flowers that would not grow, because who cared, _who fucking cared, _his trying would all be for nothing. And he knew it. He had known it for the moment he was born.

And so what was still kicking inside him?

On the horizon Phil could see soldiers, red jackets dripping into the sand like blood, like toy soldiers lined up, waiting to be decimated by the grubby fingers of two year olds.

Phil had never felt such defeat in his life.

And he had never felt such a willingness to survive.

Ash pushed his palms into the sand, his arms wobbling but failing. Failing. Failing. Failing. And Phil could no longer watch as the sand trickled over Dan's hair, blood dripping into the sand.

There was no hurricane coming to save him. And there was no god. There was only him, and for once, that had be fucking enough.

"Forrest!" Phil yelled, watching his green eyes entranced on the soldiers as they advanced, running like something out of _Narnia, _like something from medieval times, "Forrest!" he rushed, "you get Ash, I'll get Dan."

Forrest turned to stare at him, and the expression was sickening, his skin paler than the moon Phil never saw, brighter than the words that shone from his wrist, scrawling hope, and for once, Phil had to listen.

The words acted in Phil's brain like a motor, and somehow he had found a fuel source in the barren lands, _Dan will remember you, he will remember you, he will remember you. _As his sweat tried to replenish the sand he chanted it in his head like a mantra, the red blood of the soldiers seeping closer and closer.

A bear hurled from the wood; black shining fur, wide set shoulders. It pinned Phil to the ground, its thickset arms curling around his head like the thick stems of plants that Phil was remembered. But Phil could only collapse, letting Dan fall atop of him, each of his limbs as heavy as the trunks from the forest. He didn't want to open his eyes but he had to. _Survival. _And when he did, he saw Yew, his cut lip smiling. It lit a small fire in the cavern of his chest, as Yew rushed up to grab Ash from Forrest's back, slinging him onto his, grabbing Forrest before he could fall and jumping him to his feet. Phil wished he had the words to describe that moment. Or at least the time before they were hurled back into the woods, the trees flying past like watercolour, the ground like smeared mud on glass, because Phil couldn't quite explain the bond that flew between them, tying them together like a rope. And if Phil believed in souls, he might've said their souls were _entwined, _or some bullcrap. But he didn't believe in souls. He imagined his insides to be the same as his constant surroundings, black as the night, the shadow on a raven's wing. He did believe in power. And he believed in the hope of survival. And in that moment, he believed a smile could tie the world together.

The cool shade seemed to bring him more power, like it was recharging his batteries. Yew slung them into a cavern and Phil had never wanted to kiss anyone more than he wanted to kiss Yew in that moment. He was deluded. The sun had gotten inside his brain, sizzling and frying like sausages on a grill, a fever worming in, wriggling about, settling in the crevices. Yew shined like a ray of light.

Dan was stirring behind him as all five boys snuck to the back of the cave, each secretly hoping that a real bear would come out and dig its teeth into their flesh, each secretly wishing for a 'quick' end and yet fearful of it all the same. Maybe some things would never change. A morph of fear and hope. Maybe it was as old as the cave that clutched at their minds.

The boys flopped down, letting the tension from their stomachs seep into the cold rock floor. But Dan's stirring limbs scared him more than anything else. Because it wasn't his Dan. It would never be his Dan again. If there were any degree of water left in Phil's shrivelled body, he would cry, but it had been wasted on the sun like many day, and _oh god why couldn't he have left him to die in the sand, _and Phil wanted to slap himself as soon as he thought it. But it was true. And as each boy breathed against the trickling cave walls, they each thought it.

Yew looked over Dan's body with a lilt in his eyes. Phil could tell he knew something, knew something from the way everyone's faces tilted away from Dan as if to look at him would make them wretch, the way everyone's eyes refused to meet with the hazel brown of Yew's, from the way Phil gripped the walkie talkie in his hand like a bomb about to detonate.

Everything was fucking doomed.

And it was entirely his fault.

He slumped and Dan stirred.

_There are no walls, _was the first thing Dan thought, accompanied by _I am not alone. _But his eyes were not yet ripe like the fruit that grew in the bushes outside his room, or, he sensed from the cold floor that he lay upon, his old room. He felt distinctly bare, as if he were lying naked, as if the wind was stroking along his bare body, as if it were ready to hold him in its hand. And yet he also felt distinctly vulnerable. He could feel the light wind, like he could hear the rustle in the trees, like he could feel the cold floor, like he could sense the seeping heat and the eyes upon him, _but he couldn't see them. _His eyes were sowed shut, bound by some kind of material. That was the third thing he noticed, the bindings that surrounded his hands and feet, but also his eyes, filtering through the light as if it were reflecting from a field of maize. It didn't fill him with panic like he guessed it was supposed to, rather it felt familiar, bindings, the unknown, he could almost kid himself that he was still lay upon his rose scented quilt with the waves washing over him.

He thought of it and his breathing grew easier.

And yet he knew it was wrong, he knew that the rose scents were a trick, _but he didn't know why._

He had become too accustomed to floating, now all he wanted to do was sink.

Voice were shouting, filtering at first like the rising of the sun, but his ears seemed to fill with the noises as he sunk and the voices flourished into a fit and Dan wondered whether that was what drowning was, a thunderstorm of loud, water filling the ears like screams. In a way Dan hoped it was, because at least that meant it was nearly over.

He felt a hand stroking along his hair, little drops falling upon his earlobes like pearls and Dan wanted to soften into them, but at the same time he wanted to flinch, wanted to flinch away at the speed of a meteor. He wanted the rose scent, and the growing apples outside, and the soft bed but at the same time he could see the ice, he could see the glass and _oh boy did he want to smash it._

And alongside the stroking came a soft hum, filtering through the sheet of ice, the notes dancing before him. It seemed to shoot to some part deep inside, the voice low and seemingly bitten by dust and sun, but still familiar, like a childhood memory. Dan wanted to know it but he didn't know anything but the scent of roses and the glass that hovered above him, like a mirror, reflecting himself back, reflecting his perfect world back, the roses that crawled on the walls, the apples that were so round, so red. Dan yearned to bite one, to let the sweetness fill his mouth, and yet somewhere inside him he knew it was poison.

The crescendo started once more.

"Throw him out!" came the cry, and even through the ice Dan could feel it's bitter tone, seeping into the water like ink, travelling in waves and notes, biting at Dan's face. He shook his head violently.

"Leave him for the vultures, for the eagles, for the soldiers, I don't care who fucking takes him as long as he's gone."

The hand gripped tighter onto his hair as he felt the water drum harder against his skull.

"Why are we so fucking stupid?"

Dan felt a body rock against him, the crying audible now, soft like the silken sheets.

"Yew, Yew." The word spiked at Dan, he knew it, he knew that he did, the branches growing from the ground, but all he could see was the golden wood. "You need to calm down." _Calm. _The water. Dan let himself float a little deeper, he was drowning and it was filling him with so much peace, with so much joy and he felt the hand curl around his hair and there was the ice again.

"They've probably got him tracked."

"Shut up! They'll hear you!"

"So what, we're all fucking dead anyway. Because of him." The word was spat and Dan wanted the lulling of the water but he forced himself to see the ice.

"Forrest. Forrest." Trees sprang, and Dan was sure he knew that one too. He was getting tired, so tired as the water lulled in his ears. "Don't you get it, don't you get it you whimpering fucking fool!" he heard a voice shout. The tree man.

"Don't you fucking speak to him like that."

The sound of someone falling. A slap to the skin.

"Don't you fucking get in Forrest?"

"Stop fucking crying."

The voice was a volcano and Dan could feel his skin prickle with the fire.

"Don't you get it? Rowan. Cedar. Elm. They're already fucking dead. Already fucking gone, because of us, because of him."

And the body fell against Dan, as his body sank to the ocean floor, to be buried beneath the sand, condensed into oils, condensed into coals and the cave spat with fire.

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><p><em><strong>Thank you for reading, and feedback is muchly appreciated (e.g. is this one too flowly and not clear enough, do you prefer Dan's pov (the kind of mystified one in the second half) or phil's more clear cut part, or is there no preferance ugh thanks)<strong>_


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